


Michael Mell, Certified Bad Decision Maker

by ironicosity



Series: vent fics by beck [4]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood, Mikey needs a hug, Panic Attacks, School Anxiety, Self-Harm, but michael is just too stubborn, hes a good friend, jeremy is concerned, sort of anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 06:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11731203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicosity/pseuds/ironicosity
Summary: He knows there’s nothing to be done about it. He knows that all he can do is take a shower and go to sleep. That’s the only thing within his range of abilities that can help.So he calls out an, “I won’t, nanay!” to his mom, and goes to take a shower.Except, when you’re having problems overthinking issues that cause you great, crippling anxiety, you probably shouldn’t be left alone with your thoughts for very long. Especially if you’re Michael Mell, certified bad decision maker.tw for self harm/blood !! pls dont read if ur sensitive to that stuff





	Michael Mell, Certified Bad Decision Maker

**Author's Note:**

> gahh excuse me if this sucks, it's my first fic in BMC! i figured what better way for me, the angst lord, to introduce myself in the fanfic community of BMC than with some angst?  
> it's kinda graphic abt the self harm so pls dont read if that might trigger you! that's the last thing i want!  
> thanks for reading :D

“Honey, don’t forget to be ready for school tomorrow!” Michael’s mother calls out cheerily from where she sits in the living room. Michael feels a wave of heat, like a shock, through his stomach. Right. School starts tomorrow. He was going to be a senior, and then he was going to graduate, and then he really wouldn’t have an excuse for not having a job, and then his mom would want him to move out, but moving out is scary, and what if he can’t get a job, or find a decent place, or what if he doesn’t have enough money for it, or --

Fuck, he was doing it again, wasn’t he? More overthinking, and with the overthinking comes the nausea. He really hate the nausea. It’s like the worst possible form of edging known to humankind, like,  _ are ya gonna vomit? Huh, huh? Are ya? Not even  _ you _ know, isn’t this fun?  _ Michael breathes out a laugh, because no, it’s not fun at all.

He knows there’s nothing to be done about it. He knows that all he can do is take a shower and go to sleep. That’s the only thing within his range of abilities that can help.

So he calls out an, “I won’t, nanay!” to his mom, and goes to take a shower.

Except, when you’re having problems overthinking issues that cause you great, crippling anxiety, you probably shouldn’t be left alone with your thoughts for very long. Especially if you’re Michael Mell, certified bad decision maker.

Michael steps in the shower, still attempting to contain the flurry inside his esophagus, which was proving to be a difficult task because he just couldn’t  _ stop thinking about school _ . What if he made a bad first impression? What if he got lost? What if he had a panic attack in class and, for the rest of the year, everyone would just know him as that weird crying kid?

He forces the thoughts away as best he can, but his shaky hands prove to him that it’s not so successful. He’s really trying his best to be calm but it’s a bit difficult when, every time he looks to his left, he sees his slightly used shaving razor.

An idea tries to nudge its way into Michael’s mind, tries to germinate, but no, it’s been so long. It’s almost been a year. He can do this, you know? It’s not that hard to resist. He’s resisted it up until now, why can’t he do it one more time?

The answer to that question is that it’s just… right there. Taunting him. Inches away from him. He could just grab it, right now, and tear into himself if he wanted.

He really wants to.

And that’s when he finds himself holding the razor in his hand.

And that’s when he finds himself taking the top apart.

And that’s when he finds himself with three small razor blades in the palm of his hand.

He feels nervous in that moment, looking down at the ages-old markings on his legs. It was so long ago, and yet he still remember it so clearly. The marks vary in thickness, in length, and in orientation. Despite the photos he’s seen of neat lines, all the same, in some kind of pattern or order, his are all over the place.

Some are diagonal, because that was the only place there was room. Some are horizontal and long. Some are vertical, though those ones are normally short, because it was an awkward angle to hold his wrist at.

And soon, some of them will be fresh.

Michael doesn’t really want to do this. He doesn’t want to erase all that time and effort, all those instances where he could have relapsed, where he wanted to so  _ fucking badly, _ but didn’t. He doesn’t want that to go away.

But he want to feel numb more than he want to stay clean.

So he picks the razor that looks the newest and the cleanest, and he skims it right over his old scars.

He’s not sure what he expected. Maybe an explosion? Some kind of big boom, or emotional overload? Something other than his red blood slowly beading into a line, and dripping down his leg?

His hands are still shaking when he draws another line.

And a few more, for good measure.

There isn’t much blood on his leg, so he goes to swipe it away, but all that does is smear it, and now his hand is coated red, and he’s starting to think he shouldn’t have done this at all.

So he laughs.

He laughs like it’s the funniest fucking thing he has ever heard.

He curls into himself, grabs at his stomach, and laughs so hard that it’s silent. The blood that got on his hand is now on his torso, as well as sliding down his wrist. And he’s laughing like a fucking hyena on mute, face contorted in some sick mixture of humor and horror, because this is truly horrifying, but it’s also just so fucking funny.

In some dark, twisted way, it’s all fucking hilarious.

Because, really, how clich é was this whole ordeal? Some depressed, anxious kid hurting himself in the shower because of school? And let’s not even mention the fact that it’s in a bathroom. Let’s not go down that rabbit hole of shame, disappointing Jeremy, disappointing his moms, hurt, guilt, loneliness, and crying in the bathrooms of people you don’t know at shitty Halloween parties.

So now here he is, standing in the shower with blood on his leg, on his hand, on his mind. He knows that he probably made a mistake, but right now he’s not really capable of thinking. He can’t really wrap his head around what he’s done, other than the fact that Jeremy is probably going to be pissed.

That makes him laugh a little bit more.

He’s literally bleeding, like, actually has multiple open wounds, and he’s still worried about what Jeremy is going to think of him.

He likes to think that it just makes him considerate, but really, he was fucked over by the whole SQUIP ordeal, and was just generally too dependent on Jeremy to begin with.

He cups his hands under the stream of the shower head, and splashes the water gently over the cuts. He’s done this enough times to know not to put it directly under the stream.

Once all the blood is washed away and none of the cuts are bleeding anymore, he begins to actually cleanse himself, like he meant to do in the first place. When he gets to washing his body, he carefully lathers his leg with his hands, and immediately regrets it. It stings, and he might enjoy the pain of harming himself, but he doesn’t enjoy this one bit.

He finishes washing all the soap off of his body, leaving the shower so that he can dry.

He slips on a plain white t-shirt and some pac-man boxers before leaving the bathroom. As he walks back into his bedroom, he looks at his phone lying on the edge of his bed. He sits down, grabbing it to check for any notifications he might have missed.

Two missed calls from Jeremy.

Normally, he would care, but his head feels like it’s full of cotton, so he just stands up, plugs in his phone for the night, and lays down in bed.

When he closes his eyes, he feels numb.

***

The sound of his PT Cruiser rumbling along the road is all Michael has to listen to on his way to Jeremy’s. When he arrives, he pulls into the driveway, and honks once. Jeremy comes bounding out of the front door, hair in a bit of a fuss but otherwise looking fine. Looking happy.

Michael wished he could feel like that.

He’s snapped back into reality when the passenger door clacks shut and Jeremy smiles up at him.

“Hey, man! Are you ready for our first day as seniors? If I’m honest, I’m kind of excited, but also super nervous, but I mean, I’m always nervous, a-and, oh, sorry, I’m rambling, and… you don’t… look okay. What’s wrong?” Throughout his spiel, Jeremy’s face changes from excited, to nervous, to concerned. It paused on concerned.

Michael sighed, and gave a weak smile.

“Just a bad night, Jer. Sorry I missed your calls.” Jeremy still looks concerned, as well as unconvinced that that was the only thing on his mind.

“Oh. I’m sorry, dude. Do you, like… wanna talk about it? ‘Cause I’ll listen, you know?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing in worry. Michael always thought it was so adorable how his face expressed every single thing he felt. Reading Jeremy is easier than reading Amelia Bedelia books. Michael shakes his head a bit, pulling out from the driveway.

“It’s fine. Maybe later, yeah? Right now, we gotta get to school, because it’s our first day as seniors, man!” He smiles, trying his best to feign excitement for Jeremy. Just because he made some stupid mistake doesn’t mean he has to bring his best friend down with him.

“Totally!” Jeremy smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading !! i hope you enjoyed :D  
> all kudos/comments/critique/etc are highly appreciated !  
> hmu on tumblr: ironicosity


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